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I’m glad he can’t see me blushing. “Yeah, about that. There isn’t any parking right outside the house, but there is a small car park just down the road.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
“See you.” I hang up.
I sit there for a moment, totally bemused. He listened to my argument with Jason? Oh my God, what did I say? I try to remember, but it’s all a blur. I recall Jason trying to slide his arm around my waist, and I yelled not to touch me. Titus said he was close to calling the police, so he must have heard that bit. I decide there’s no point in worrying about it. Although he shouldn’t have listened in, I’m kind of touched that he did. Now, though, I need to get ready for his arrival.
I dash around tidying up, then go up the stairs to the spare room. The furnishings come with the house, which I rent from my headmistress at the primary school. I’ve never used the spare single bed, and it’s heaped with boxes containing books and other personal effects I’ve never bothered to unpack. As quickly as I can, I move them into my own bedroom, stacking them up in the corner. There’s a spare duvet in the laundry cupboard, rolled up in a black bag, and I take that out and quickly stuff it in a fresh cover, and make up the bed. Finally I put on an oil burner with a few drops of lavender and bergamot to make the room smell nice.
I check my appearance in the bathroom mirror, wincing at the state of my mascara. I take out a wipe and clear up the worst of it, brush my hair, then go back down to the kitchen. I pop a couple of slices of the bread I made today in the toaster, just in case he’s hungry.
The poor guy must be absolutely shattered. I can remember when I first came over from New Zealand—I woke up at four a.m. and had to go to bed at seven p.m. for what felt like weeks before I gradually adjusted to the twelve-hour difference. It makes his four-hour journey all the way from London even more impressive. How on earth did he manage to hire a car at this time of night?
Then I remember Chrissie’s comments about him speaking at conferences in Australia, Canada, and South Korea, as well as being the keynote speaker in Auckland. I keep forgetting how important he is. He obviously wasn’t staying in a hostel. No doubt the kind of top hotel he’d been in would be used to organizing requests like that.
I check my watch; it’s been nearly twenty minutes. He should be here soon. I put some Miles Davis on in the background, then open the front door and go outside. The road is quiet; there’s very little traffic at this time of night. It’s a narrow street, as the houses on both sides have medieval origins. A Norman church sits on the hill up the road, overlooking the village. Down the road, the street splits around a central clocktower, the right-hand fork leading up toward the moors, the left-hand down to the river.
There’s not a lot of light pollution here, and the sky is brilliant with stars. I turn to the northwest and find Ursa Major, the Great Bear—also known as the Big Dipper and the Plough—and follow two of the stars—Dubhe and Merak—to Polaris, or the Pole Star. These stars aren’t visible Down Under, and I always get a thrill when I see them.
Then I drop my gaze back to the road, and I inhale at the sight of a lone man, walking toward me.
It’s been a few years, but I recognize him immediately. He’s tall—I think he’s six three—and built like a rugby player, with powerful shoulders, muscular arms, and big thighs that stretch the material of his jeans. He was wearing a suit when I talked to him on Zoom, but he’s obviously changed, and now he’s wearing a gray T-shirt, which means his gorgeous tattoos are visible on his forearms.
His hair is short at the back, fashionably styled on top to make it look like he doesn’t give a damn, or maybe he genuinely hasn’t touched it since he got up this morning, it’s hard to tell. He’s clean shaven, although as he gets closer I can see the shadow of stubble, suggesting he didn’t stop to shave before he left this evening.
Oh my God, I assumed I’d imagined how handsome he was, but my memory is better than I thought. He’s absolutely gorgeous.
He smiles and lowers the bag he’s carrying over his shoulder as he nears. Just in front of me, he drops the bag onto the pavement. Then he walks right up to me and takes my face in his hands.
For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me the way he did when I was sixteen, and I inhale like I did back then, my heart skipping a beat. But he just stares into my eyes as if he’s shining a flashlight into the corners of a cave, looking for buried treasure.
“Are you okay?” he whispers. “Really?”
I nod, emotional welling inside me at his concern. “I’m all right.”
“Thank God,” he says, and then he pulls me into his arms and wraps them around me.
He’s warm and solid, and as I press my cheek against his T-shirt, I can smell his really nice aftershave. It’s lost its intensity after his long drive, but it’s still rich, sensual, and spicy. Three words I’d definitely use to describe him.
Embarrassed that he might be aware I’ve just sniffed him, I go to draw back, but he doesn’t release me, and so I slide my arms around his waist and let him hug me for a while.
I hadn’t realized until I came to the UK how different the men are here to Kiwi guys. Don’t get me wrong, I love Englishmen, and, on the whole, they tend to be self-effacing and polite, while plenty of them play sports, or have jobs outdoors. But Kiwi guysaredifferent. They’re matter of fact and practical, open-hearted rather than reserved, and speak their minds rather than holding back out of politeness. Also, because the weather tends to be nicer up in Auckland and the Northland, much of our childhood is spent outdoors, and even if they don’t have Maori blood in them, the guys usually have light-brown skin. He looks young, fit, and healthy, and he’s a connection with my homeland that I hadn’t expected. Although I love it here, and I haven’t thought too much about New Zealand, a sudden wave of homesickness makes tears spring into my eyes.
“I promised I wouldn’t go weepy on you,” I whisper, fighting not to let the tears roll down my cheeks again.
He rubs my back. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re all right.”
I lean my forehead on his shoulder, and he rests his hand on the back of my head.
“You cut your hair,” he murmurs, running a strand through his fingers.
I nod without looking up, waiting for him to echo my family and say something likeWhat a shame.
“I love it,” he says. “You look all grown up.”
Aw, this guy is killing me. I put both hands on his chest, unable to miss the hard, defined muscles beneath my fingertips, and push back. “Come in,” I say, smiling, and I back away into the house.
He follows, bringing his bag, and I close the door behind him.
